


The Sword and the Faith

by novembersmith



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Short, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-15
Updated: 2009-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:17:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembersmith/pseuds/novembersmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A group of insurgents kidnap Arthur’s pet sorcerer; Arthur takes this very poorly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sword and the Faith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fictionalfaerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalfaerie/gifts).



> Implications of torture and general slaughter, nothing on-screen, though. Also, un-betaed. Title from MCR's Desert Song.

No, Merlin thought vaguely, and tried to push away the grasping hands before remembering, oh, right, there had been a terrible crunching sound when he’d hit the wall earlier. The blinding pain was still just as blinding as he remembered, and he shuddered and tried not to breathe. It was so cold.

Someone was talking, and brushing his hair out of his face, pressing a warm hand to his cheek, though, and that was different.

“You have to get up, Merlin, we have to go,” a voice said, from far, far away, and Merlin whimpered, but the voice was so desperate and frantic. “Merlin, please. Please, don’t—please wake up.”

“Arthur,” he said thickly, and when he opened his eyes, the figure in front of him was nightmarish in the guttering torchlight, red and dripping, but the eyes were still a bright familiar blue. Merlin frowned. “Are you alright?”

“Merlin, you idiot,” Arthur said hoarsely. “Am I—yes, I’m perfectly fine. I need you to sit up, and then I need you to get on this horse.”

“There’s blood,” Merlin tried to raise his arm again and found himself making a tiny, irrepressible sound of pain that made Arthur’s hand go still on his face.

“It’s not my blood,” Arthur said. “We have to get you home. Can you sit up?”

“How is there a horse in the dungeon?” Merlin wondered, because there was a horse, Arthur’s mare Bronwyn, coal-black and pawing the stone of the ground with an echoing, ringing sound. “They’ll hear you,” he told Bronwyn worriedly, and Arthur scowled.

“There’s no one to hear, Merlin,” he said evenly, and slid an arm around Merlin’s back. “And Bronwyn’s clever. I told you before. You never listen.” And then he lifted and Merlin felt the world fizzle to blackness, and when he woke up again, he was cradled in Arthur’s arms, face pressed against the blood and gore on his neck, and the world was jolting around him as Arthur’s warhorse cleverly picked its way up the stairs.

“Do you want some water?” Arthur asked worriedly, and Merlin realized he must have made some sort of noise, and also that he was thirsty, thirstier than he’d ever been. He nodded into Arthur’s neck and thought dizzily that it was unsanitary, all this blood. Arthur should have washed, and instead he was here, tacky with gore, supporting Merlin’s head and carefully raising his canteen, gently brushing away the rivulets of water that spilled out of his mouth as he swallowed greedily.

“I wouldn’t,” he told Arthur later, when they made camp in the forest; they were only ten miles from Camelot now, but Merlin could ride no further and even Arthur’s voice was tired and weary. They lay in the soft grass besides a stream, and all the world was filled with the quiet sound of leaves and water. Between the tree branches the sky was very clear and bright with stars. Arthur had him pulled close and wrapped in his arms, and he was warm. “I promise, I wouldn’t, I would never, never—”

“Don’t be stupid, Merlin, I know,” Arthur said into Merlin’s hair. Merlin was dimly certain that he smelled awful, though Arthur didn’t seem to mind. He couldn’t be sure of how much time had passed in the dungeon, though he thought it had to have been more than a week. They had asked him again, and again, and each time Merlin had said no. Arthur’s heart was beating very quickly beneath his ear.

Arthur cleared his throat, and when he spoke his lips brushed Merlin’s temple.

“You must be a completely rubbish sorcerer,” he said, and stroked Merlin’s side, minding the clumsily wrapped bandages and splinted arm. “A child could have picked that lock.”

“Iron,” Merlin said muzzily. “Can’t…” He sketched a vague figure in the air with his good hand. “I was going to escape. Eventually.”

“Did you not think,” Arthur said, catching the errant hand and holding it still. “Did you not think, Merlin, that you could have just lied? Lied, and come home? It’s not as though you had to kill me, you just had to _say _it.”

“I would never kill you,” Merlin said fiercely, and fought a yawn. He was still grimy and covered with blood and the smell of cold, underground places, and he hurt everywhere, but that was alright. Here was green life and running water and open sky, and here was Arthur safe and lecturing him.

“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t have—we’re talking about this later,” Arthur said, sighing, and his arms tightened minutely. “Sleep, now. No one will ever try that again. I have you.”

“Yes,” Merlin agreed, because it was true, but he stayed awake a little longer anyway, listening to Arthur breathe in the darkness.


End file.
